


Indulgence

by bbcatemysoul



Series: 50 Ways to Feed Your Lover [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Fluff, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Introspection, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 14:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcatemysoul/pseuds/bbcatemysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is away for the weekend, but he makes sure Sherlock is taken care of anyway. Sherlock loves it, and finds it very annoying that he loves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to [Starving](http://archiveofourown.org/works/927900), so if you haven't read that one, you should go do that first. Enjoy!

* * *

 

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, comparing samples of algae under his microscope and making notes in his notebook. He could hear John coming down the stairs with... ah, yes, the smaller of his two suitcases and a garment bag. In his peripheral vision, he could see John setting down his things in the sitting room and then entering the kitchen. 

“Sherlock,” John placed a warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention. 

The detective sighed, barely sparing John a glance. It wouldn't do for John to think his departure was of such importance that it could distract Sherlock from algae. “Hmm?” 

With a soft squeeze, John dropped his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and leaned his hip against the table. “Now, remember, I'm gone until Sunday-” 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted absently. Let John think it didn't matter. 

“I'm gone until Sunday,” John repeated, ignoring Sherlock's interruption, “and I want you to eat two meals and a snack each day that I'm gone.” 

Scowling, Sherlock finally looked up from his microscope and met John's eyes. “You know I won't,” he argued petulantly. “More important things to do; I lose track of time.” He couldn't remember a time in his adult life that he had ever eaten that much without John there to help him. 

The corners of John's eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I'm going to remind you,” he promised. 

Huffing out a non-committal grunt, Sherlock returned his attention to his algae samples and forced himself not to listen to the sounds of John preparing to leave. When he next looked up from his work, it was after midnight, and John had been gone for nearly seven hours. He checked his phone, and saw that he had missed a text. 

 _At hotel in Zurich. Don't keep working all night. -JW_  

If John were at home, he would have fussed at Sherlock to sleep, bribing him with promises about breakfast in the morning. But John wasn't home, and Sherlock sullenly refused to give in to sleep until nearly four o'clock, when he dozed off while brooding on the sofa. 

The chime of a text message woke Sherlock at eight. He felt his pulse quicken as he read it. 

 _2 slices of toast. Beans. 2 sausages. Stop what you're doing and eat breakfast. -JW_  

When Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, he rummaged through the cupboards and the refrigerator, finding that John had separated everything into neatly-stacked containers and labelled each one with a sticky note denoting which meal it should be used for on which day. He pulled out the bread, beans, and sausage, all designated “Friday Breakfast,” and slowly, deliberately peeled off the sticky notes, tucking them into the pocket of his dressing gown. John had spent time planning and preparing all of this, meticulously, knowing that his flatmate wouldn't eat otherwise. Sherlock felt a bit short of breath as he distractedly reached down to rub himself through his pyjamas. 

His phone pinged again, and he checked it with his free hand. 

 _No wanking until after you eat. -JW_  

“Insufferable idiot,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, tossing his phone onto the table. John was so unobservant in most things, but when it came to Sherlock himself, he had grown surprisingly perceptive. Still, this was the first time John had ever blatantly mentioned Sherlock's food-related proclivities. The only time John had acknowledged the situation at all, really, except for that one time when he had gotten Sherlock off in the middle of a restaurant. A pleasant shiver ran down the detective's spine at the memory, but it was quickly followed by a flash of annoyance at the fact that it had been seventeen days since the fettuccine Romano incident and there had been no repeat performance, even in private. Instead, Sherlock had been left to take care of things himself when the need arose, and John clearly knew it, or else he wouldn't have sent the bloody text. 

Sitting down with his plate, Sherlock closed his eyes and ate slowly, as he would if John were there feeding him. It wasn't the same. He opened his eyes and picked up his phone, tapping out a text message. 

 **You shouldn't have left. Sausages burned on one side. SH**  

There was no reply; John had probably switched off his phone once he had gone into the conference. Finishing his food and leaving his plate on the table (John could deal with it when he got home; he hadn't specified that Sherlock had to clean up after himself after eating his prescribed meal), Sherlock wandered into the sitting room instead of retreating to his bedroom as he usually did. After a moment's thought, he stripped off his pyjamas and sank down into John's chair. John (foolishly, perhaps) hadn't placed any restrictions on _where_ he could have a wank. 

As there hadn't been a client in a week, and nothing from Lestrade in nineteen days (the case had taken two days and when they were done, John had suggested an Italian restaurant and then...) Sherlock had nothing pressing to do with his morning, and couldn't see any reason why he should be in any sort of rush about things. He might as well kill some time. 

Forty-one minutes later, Sherlock reached for his discarded t-shirt on the floor, wiped off his hand, and then picked up his phone and sent a text. 

 **Upholstery on your chair will need some cleaning. SH**  

Immediately, doubt assailed him. He wasn't bothered by the thought that John would be angry about Sherlock masturbating in his chair; John got upset about a lot of things Sherlock did, and then lectured him about his inappropriate behaviour (and why, _why_ , did Sherlock feel a bit of a thrill at the thought of John giving him a very stern talking-to about appropriate places to masturbate?) and moved on with life. He was a bit concerned, however, that actually talking about whatever was happening might make John feel uncomfortable enough to withdraw. 

But it was John who started it, before breakfast, when he sent the damned text. 

And seventeen days earlier, all Sherlock had to do was ask John nicely for what he wanted (and _no_ , there was no need to mentally relive every detail- yet again- just now) and John had taken care of everything. 

To distract himself from his uncertainty, Sherlock returned to the kitchen to clean his Petri dishes and search the refrigerator for something on which to grow mould. 

At a quarter past noon, Sherlock's phone interrupted him as he lounged on the sofa in his dressing gown, writing up the results of the previous night's algae experiment on his website. 

 _Sitting room must've been a nice change of scenery from your bedroom. Mrs. H sent up the leftover ham from her book club meeting. Go make a sandwich. Please eat at least half. -JW_  

Not angry, then. John's texts were always short and clipped when he was upset. This one was infuriatingly neutral, really; perhaps a bit amused. Too late, Sherlock realised his mistake in admitting to his misuse of John's chair. Sentiment. Now John knew Sherlock missed him. He slammed his (well, not really, but his own was in the bedroom) laptop shut and stalked into the kitchen to make his lunch. 

Sherlock ate exactly half of the sandwich, as John had instructed, leaving the other half on the mantelpiece next to the skull. He spent the afternoon pacing the floor with his violin, alternating between proper music and a particularly obnoxious screeching meant to inconvenience Mrs. Hudson enough to make her come scold him (at which point she would undoubtedly do some tidying up before going back downstairs). 

At seven, John made him finish off Wednesday night's leftover lasagne, ordered him to stop bothering Mrs. Hudson, and told him to go to bed before 2AM. Sherlock ate as he was told, and then defied the rest of the message by microwaving an entire boxed set of DVDs about the lives of classical composers, one disc after another, while recording his observations in between, until the microwave went up in smoke. 

 **Need new microwave. Also believe failing microwave may have skewed experiment results. In future, will need to test each disc in a fresh microwave. SH**  

As it was already the middle of the night, John's reply didn't come until morning. 

 _God damn it, Sherlock. -JW_  

Angry. 

For the next hour, Sherlock sulked in his armchair, as breakfast instructions didn't seem to be forthcoming. He supposed he could go to the kitchen and find everything labelled for Saturday breakfast himself, but there hardly seemed any point. The four months after Sherlock's return had shown that misbehaviour resulted in John stopping the game... _Oh_. Until Sherlock asked him nicely. It galled Sherlock to have to do it, and he figured John knew that and it was rather the point. John would take care of Sherlock, but Sherlock had to admit he wanted John to do it. He felt himself blushing, and he scrunched up his face in disgust as he typed out the request. 

 **May I have breakfast, please? SH**  

 _2 eggs, scrambled. 2 slices of toast. Harry's home-made marmalade. - JW_  

That was the rule, then. Hypothesis confirmed. 

And now Captain John Watson knew he was firmly in control of this whole situation, and Sherlock was _absolutely not_ going to listen to his body trying to tell him that John being in control was something to wank over. 

For a brief moment, Sherlock considered skipping breakfast, and letting John know it, but he rejected the idea just as quickly. Trying to make a point wasn't worth ruining everything, and the very fact that he felt that way just added to his general agitation. He poked his eggs savagely around the pan as he cooked his breakfast, venting his frustration on them. 

Unfortunately, popping open the jar of marmalade John had brought back from a recent visit to Harry's, and seeing that it was completely untouched and that John had been saving it for him, did not send the correct messages to Sherlock's groin. It was also surprisingly good marmalade. He really would have liked to take his time and enjoy eating it, but things were growing urgent, and John wasn't around to enforce patience. He ate in a hurry and gave in to temptation, shoving his pyjama bottoms down over his hips and not bothering to leave the kitchen table. 

On impulse, he picked up his phone and called John's number. Yes, straight to voicemail; turned off, as expected. The sound of John's voice (in spite of the awkwardness of his outgoing message), polite and unassuming and deceptively lacking in authority, only aroused Sherlock further, and he groaned just he heard the beep. For this, he assumed it was preferable to be concise, so he forged ahead purposefully, letting his imagination go where it wanted (fettuccine, white tablecloth, John's hand), and made no effort to regulate his uneven breathing or to stifle his ragged moans or to bite back a choked gasp of, “ _John_ ,” as he came. 

He hung up and immediately sent a text. 

 **You may wish to be in private when you check your voicemail. SH**  

At a quarter to eleven, a text came from Lestrade about a murder meant to look like some sort of ritual killing, prompting Sherlock to make himself presentable and leave the flat for the first time since John left. He was at the crime scene when his phone pinged. 

 _Well, that was certainly a surprise. Have the last peach. Cut it up and drizzle some of that blackberry honey over it. -JW_  

Sherlock had expected a bit more of a reaction than that, and he was a bit put-out over not receiving it. He was even more put-out that his traitorous stomach chose to growl in public at the mere mention of the blackberry honey that John knew Sherlock was very fond of. 

 **Crime scene. SH**  

 _Finish up there, and then go home and eat before you do anything else. -JW_  

It was hardly playing fair to make Sherlock interrupt a case and go all the way home for a ridiculous bowl of fruit. 

 **I'm not going to tell Lestrade I'm leaving to go eat! SH**  

 _You don't have to tell him anything, but if you don't go eat, I will make you tell him next time, and I don't care if Anderson is around to overhear. -JW_  

Sherlock finished up with the body, and of course, _of course_ , Lestrade asked him to come back to the Yard to look over some evidence from a similar murder committed three years previous. 

“I have to do something first. I'll be along later,” Sherlock gritted out, his coattails flying out behind him dramatically as he whirled around and stormed out of the victim's flat. All the way home in the cab, he forced himself to picture Mycroft in his pants, because masturbating twice in one day would be a completely unacceptable lack of self-control even when there wasn't a case on. It wasn't to even be considered when there was a murder to deal with, no matter how delightfully commanding John chose to be. 

It was very difficult to continue thinking about something as unpleasant as Mycroft, however, when the flavour of the blackberry honey and the peach together was nothing short of divine. It would be perfect with John feeding it to him. The ride back to NSY was somewhat uncomfortable, as Sherlock had trouble keeping his mind on Mycroft in his pants, instead of far more appealing fantasies, such as John in his pants. 

And then, after a cursory appraisal of the evidence from the three-year-old cold case, Sherlock accosted the killer at his place of work at the library and chased him in and out of alleys for twelve blocks before making the unlucky discovery of the suspect's burly accomplice (there's always _something_ ) and winding up bound and gagged and lying in a very awkward position in an empty storage closet for the next ten and a half hours. 

He supposed he should at least be grateful that the idiots didn't realise it would have been much better to simply kill him and dump the body, but he couldn't help also wishing that they had been stupid enough to do a shoddy job restraining him. 

If John were with him, this wouldn't have happened. And if it had, he certainly wouldn't have had to wait as long to be found. And his phone wouldn't be pinging constantly with texts he couldn't answer because he couldn't reach that bloody pocket while his hands were tied. 

By the time Lestrade came to the rescue and apprehended the perpetrators, and Sherlock had dealt with the paramedics and the police, and arrived back at Baker Street, it was after three in the morning. His phone battery was dead and he had to plug it in before he could check his texts. He skipped the countless ones from Lestrade, demanding to know where he was, and went straight for John's. 

 _How's the case? -JW_  

 _Must not be too boring, if it's keeping you busy for the whole afternoon. -JW_  

 _I hope you're keeping out of trouble, more or less. -JW_  

 _There's a couple of containers of beef stew in the freezer. Warm one up for dinner. -JW_  

 _Letting me know you're not dead wouldn't go amiss. -JW_  

Sherlock pictured John sitting in his hotel room, wondering if he needed to catch the next flight from Zurich to come to his flatmate's rescue. He considered not responding at all so that John would do just that, but John had probably already contacted Lestrade, and Lestrade had probably let John know the moment Sherlock was retrieved from the supply closet. 

 **I'm fine. SH**  

 _Lestrade already called me, but I appreciate you taking the trouble to tell me yourself. Now go eat, you brilliant idiot. -JW_  

When John got home, he would probably chastise Sherlock (again) for running off into danger by himself, but for now, it was obvious that he was relieved that his flatmate was safe, and relief apparently made him willing to throw around words like “brilliant.” Sherlock chose to ignore that “brilliant” was accompanied by a word generally reserved for the moronic general public, and went to warm up his frozen beef stew on the stove (a functioning microwave would have been welcome at that point, but Mrs. Hudson was leaving that problem for John to deal with). 

As the stew was heating, Sherlock fetched his own laptop from the bedroom so that he could type up some notes over dinner. Once he settled at the kitchen table with his bowl, however, he concluded that his notes could wait. Instead, he started the webcam and began eating. Sherlock was certain beef stew was not on anyone's list of most visually stimulating foods to watch someone eat, but he would work with what he had. After a few bites, he shrugged out of his jacket and discarded it on the kitchen floor. Halfway through his meal, he tugged his shirt free from his trousers and slowly unbuttoned it. At first, he carefully kept his eyes trained on his food, but as he slipped off his shirt and tossed on top of his jacket on the floor, he let himself glance at the camera. John would like the eye contact. As the stew dwindled, Sherlock unfastened his trousers, knowing that John wouldn't be able to actually see anything past the edge of the table, but that he would know what was happening all the same. Only once he had swallowed the final bite and let the spoon drop into the empty bowl, though, did Sherlock actually touch himself, because that was the rule. Left hand clenched in his hair and eyes fixed on the camera, he brought himself off and then sent the video to John's email, remembering almost as an afterthought to put a warning in the subject line against opening it in public. And then, having solved a case, eaten dinner, and had a wank, he dragged himself to his room, stripped off the rest of his clothes, crawled into bed, and fell asleep. 

It was a noise that woke him. He opened his eyes, and from the light in his room, judged it to be around two in the afternoon. Sunday. _John_. 

Just as the thought formed in his barely-awake mind, he heard his bedroom doorknob turn and the door slowly open, and there stood John, holding a plate with a positively massive slice of chocolate cake on it. And, oh, _god_ , he hadn't even brought a fork into the room with him. 

“Really, John, cake for breakfast?” Sherlock complained, perhaps not as convincingly as he would have liked, as he sat up in bed, propping himself up against the pillows, with the bed sheet pulled up around his waist. 

John chuckled as he set the plate on the corner of the bedside table. “It's past lunchtime for most people,” he observed. “But, anyway, aside from destroying the microwave, you really were shockingly well-behaved while I was gone, so I thought you might like a treat.” His gaze locked on Sherlock's. “Would you?” 

The process of breathing suddenly seemed a very confusing, complicated thing for Sherlock. He swallowed once, then again, before attempting to speak, and even then, his voice was embarrassingly unsteady. “Yes. Please.” 

A gratified smile played around John's lips for a moment, and he nodded, but then his expression grew serious as he slipped into Doctor Watson mode and examined the marks on Sherlock's wrists from where he had been bound the day before. “Ankles, too?” he asked, releasing Sherlock's hands. 

The detective nodded, and before he could register what was about to happen, John had taken hold of the sheet and pulled it back to get a look at the rest of him. All of the rest of him, since Sherlock had climbed into bed naked the night before. And without the sheet to cover him, there was certainly no way to keep up the pretence that there wasn't at least one part of him that was very interested in these proceedings. 

“Beautiful,” John breathed, submitting Sherlock to a long moment of scrutiny that could not in any way be passed off as doctorly concern, before very gently turning his professional attention on Sherlock's bruised ankles. When he was satisfied, he nudged the detective's legs apart and settled on the bed, fully clothed, between Sherlock's knees. 

Sherlock was vaguely aware that his lips were parted and he was breathing more heavily than normal as John gestured for him to pass the plate from the bedside table. If he wanted, he could actually wrap his legs around John right now. In his own bed. He obediently passed the cake with one unsteady hand, while the other dropped to his lap. 

“No,” John commanded softly, taking the plate, and using his free hand to place first one, then the other of Sherlock's hands flat on the bed on either side of his hips. He grinned. “I think you've done quite enough of that this weekend.” 

“You got my email, then.” Sherlock wanted to sound very collected and smug, but he couldn't manage it while he was fixated on John's fingers breaking off a bit of the cake, heedless of the frosting smearing on his fingertips. 

“Yes, I did, and I couldn't get home fast enough,” John admitted, pressing the first bite of cake between Sherlock's parted lips, and letting his eyelids flutter closed as Sherlock's tongue licked the excess frosting from his fingers. 

That type of reaction from John was new, and Sherlock couldn't resist the temptation to wrap his mouth around John's index finger and give it a long suck until John bit his lip and groaned. It was a beautiful sound, and Sherlock's hips rocked in response, seeking friction that wasn't to be had. And then John's fingers withdrew, only to return a moment later with more, and Sherlock let his tongue dip between John's competent fingers, savouring the taste of his skin mingling with the rich chocolate. 

Surely, John couldn't- wouldn't- make him wait until he ate that entire piece of cake? Less than halfway through, Sherlock's body was practically vibrating from anticipation, and John, flushed and breathless, was scarcely better off. 

“John, please,” Sherlock heard himself beg, his lips pressed against John's saliva-slick fingers, and he was surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded. 

“Yes,” John agreed without hesitation, his voice barely audible, and he leaned forward to set the plate on the bedside table and missed, sending cake and plate tumbling to the floor together. 

And then John's lips were on Sherlock's, which was surprisingly far less stupid and annoying than anticipated, and Sherlock thought that John's hand on him was _much_ better without a pair of trousers in the way. Sherlock's fingers fumbled frantically to unfasten John's jeans, managing to pop the button open before John brushed him away and very firmly planted the detective's hands flat on the mattress once more. 

“Just relax, let me take care of you,” John murmured in Sherlock's ear, which Sherlock thought was ridiculous, because there was clearly no way he could relax with John's weight pressing on him and John's hand doing what it was doing and John's breath blowing against the corner of his jaw in hot puffs. But then Sherlock hooked his feet behind John's knees and bucked his hips up into John's fist and came very messily and very loudly, and suddenly relaxing seemed a much more viable option. 

Vaguely, through the post-orgasmic haze, Sherlock heard the sound of John's jeans unzipping, and he opened his eyes to watch lazily as John quickly finished himself off and then collapsed onto the unoccupied half of the bed.

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the sound of unsteady breathing gradually slowing to normal. 

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat. “You're not going to wait another three weeks to do that again, are you?” 

“Ah, no,” John chuckled, running a hand over his face. “That... in the restaurant... it, uh, things were very emotional at the time, and I wasn't sure after, that you really wanted-” 

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. 

John rolled his eyes and pushed himself up out of the bed. “Yes, a bit more obvious _now_ , after you spent the weekend getting off in my chair, and leaving dirty messages on my phone, and sending me erotic videos. Now get up, you lazy git, and let's have a shower. It's nearly three in the afternoon. Don't step in the cake.”

* * *

 


End file.
